


Done to Death

by macbyrne



Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining, Pre-Series, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-26
Updated: 2009-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macbyrne/pseuds/macbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is this Dean Winchester?”</p><p>At the familiar voice, Dean gripped the steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached.  “Sammy?  That you?”</p><p>“Uh, my name’s Clay Miller.  I got your phone number from Jim Murphy; he said you might be able to help me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for queenklu... she knows why.

“Is this Dean Winchester?”

At the familiar voice, Dean gripped the steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached.  “Sammy?  That you?”

“Uh, my name’s Clay Miller.  I got your phone number from Jim Murphy; he said you might be able to help me.”

Dean chuckled tightly.  That voice.  He would have sworn—  “Alright Clay.  What can I help you with?”

“It’s...it’s really hard to explain.  The cops think I’m crazy.  And dangerous.  If it wasn’t for the lack of bodies, I’m sure I’d be under arrest right now.”  The man’s voice dropped, low and broken.  “He— _It_ killed Jenna.  And my sister.”

Dean gritted his teeth, trying to quell the instinctive need to soothe the pain he heard in Clay’s voice.  “What killed them, Clay?”

There was a long pause.  “A monster.  A monster killed them.”

~*~

They met at a diner that had seen better days; only three of the thirteen letters in the neon sign still worked, and Dean knew that the walls inside would be stained with nicotine and grease.  But the parking lot was full, which was always his indicator of a good meal, so he pulled the Impala into a parking spot and headed into the diner.

He scanned the faces, looking for someone sitting alone.  He was half-way across the diner before he realized that the tall guy in the back booth was Sam, his head buried in his hands.

“Sammy?”  He had his hands wrapped in his brother’s shirt, hauling him out of the seat and into a hug before he had a chance to catalogue the changes.  He pushed Sam back, realizing his brother had put on another couple of inches in height and several pounds of muscle in the years he’d been away at Stanford.  It took a moment to push down the lust that flickered in his belly, but it was second nature to ignore that brief twist of longing.  He’d been ignoring that part of himself for years.

“Jesus, Sammy, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Are you Dean Winchester?” Sam asked. 

If it wasn’t for the confused look on Sam’s face, Dean would have slugged him for making such a bad joke.  That time Sam had gotten hit with a face full of pixie dust and couldn’t remember his own name, let alone Dean’s, had been one of the roughest weeks Dean had ever gone through.  He had to keep tying Sammy to the bed to stop him from trying to escape, as Sam had put it, from the gun-wielding psychopaths who were holding him prisoner.  Dad has just laughed, but between the intense worry that Sam would never remember him, despite what Dad said, and the intense desire to start licking Sam’s wrist where it was bound to the bedpost, Dean had never been farther from laughing in his life.

“Sammy, that ain’t funny, dude.”

“My name is Clay Miller.”

And that knocked the breath right out of Dean’s body.   He took a step back, pushing the other man away, and immediately started cataloguing the differences between this Clay and his brother.

The hair was different, for one.  Sammy had always been prone to emo-hair, keeping his bangs long so he could hide behind them.  This man’s hair was parted in the middle, revealing a high forehead, and it was long enough that it curled up at the ends in little fly away pieces.

The man’s imposing size was another.  Last time he saw Sammy— _pouring down rain, bag over his shoulder, and a betrayed look in his eyes when Dean refused to budge from Dad’s side_ —he was still scrawny, still gangly, still dealing with yet _another_ growth spurt that had pushed him to six feet, and within brushing distance of Dean’s own 6’1.  This man loomed over Dean’s head, and the width of his shoulders made Dean wonder, could he walk through doors normally or did he have to sidle through them sideways?  This was a man comfortable in his skin, who was used to his imposing size and long limbs, unlike poor clumsy Sammy.

But it was the eyes that finally got through Dean’s mental block and rapped on his head yelling _This is not your brother, doofus!_   Sam’s eyes, despite everything he’d seen, had never looked like this.  This man’s eye were full of grief and loss and a hint of madness. 

This was _definitely_ not his brother.

He took another step back, shrugging and grimacing a bit in apology, and dropped into the other side of the booth.  “Sorry, dude.  You look just like—“

“Sammy, yeah, I got it.”  Clay slid back into his seat, looking tired and worn out.  He rubbed a hand over his face before glancing at the menu.  “Did you want to order anything?”

“Yeah, I could eat.”  The waitress made a timely appearance, and Dean ordered a cheeseburger platter.  Clay shook his head at the waitress’s question, and just asked for some coffee.

“You sure about that dude?”  Dean asked carefully.  The guy looked like a loaded gun with the safety off, just waiting for someone to pull the trigger.  “You look like you’re just about coffee-d out.”

Clay smiled softly, and Dean’s heart stumbled in his chest.  Jesus, the guy looked _just_ like Sammy.  “I’m exhausted, Mr. Winchester.  But I can’t sleep, because every time I close my eyes...”

“It’s Dean.  And I understand.  Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Clay closed his eyes.  “My sister...Whitney was on a camping trip with some friends when she disappeared.  I’d been...away.  Our mother was sick, cancer.  Whitney was taking care of her.  And then she vanished.  Everybody said it was just the stress.  Taking care of Mom got to be too much for her.”  Clay rubbed his hands over his face and stared at Dean.  “But when our mother died, and Whitney never showed for the funeral, I knew something was wrong.  No one believed me.  But I _know_ my sister.  She’d never do that.”

Dean nodded.  He didn’t bother mentioning all of the cases he’d investigated where that was exactly what happened.  Parents, spouses, children, all refusing to believe that someone could just walk away from their life.  It _had_ to be something evil, something supernatural.  But if Jim Murphy had referred this guy, obviously he thought there was a hunt.

“Do _you_ have a sister, Dean?”

Dean grinned.  “Sometimes I think I do.  But no, I’ve got a little brother.”

“Then you know.  You know how you know them better than anyone else.  That’s how I know Whitney.  _Knew_ Whitney.”

And just like that, the guy was crying.  Dean glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was taking note of the waterworks, but the diner had cleared out quite a bit after the lunch rush, and there was no one nearby.

“That fucking monster kept her chained up for six weeks, _six weeks_ , while I looked everywhere.  I begged every cop in the county to help me find her, and no one would lift a finger.  No evidence, they said.  Five people just don’t vanish without leaving something behind!  They just don’t!”

Dean nodded and passed Clay a napkin.  When Clay accepted it with a surprised look on his face, Dean gestured to the man’s face.  “You got a little something there, man.”

Clay wiped his face.  “Thanks.  Sorry.  I just—I can’t sleep, and I’m so fucking _tired_ , and all I can see when I close my eyes is her _face_ and—“

“Tell me what happened.”

Clay wadded the damp napkin up in his fist.  “He killed them.  All of them.  And it didn’t matter what you did to him, he just kept coming.  I fed him brain first into a wood chipper, man.  We dumped his body in the lake, and he burst through the dock and grabbed Whitney, and before I could do anything—“

The waitress gave them a funny look when she delivered Dean’s cheeseburger, but Dean ignored her.  Clay didn’t even seem to notice.

Dean took a hefty bite of his burger.  Clay stared out the window.  Another tear trickled down his face.  “I left her there.”

“What?”

Clay briefly made eye contact before staring out the window again.  “I was so fucking scared.  I’d watched him kill so many people, and then she was gone, and I jumped in after her, and there was all this blood, and I...I ran.  I left her there.  What the fucking hell kind of brother am I?”

Dean swallowed the last of his burger, and licked his fingers.  “Clay, man.  There was nothing you could do.  It killed your sister, I get that.  I do.  And I’ll help you kill it.  But if you’d stayed there, you’d probably be dead too.  And what good would that do anybody?”

A small, sad smile crossed Clay’s face.  It didn’t reach his eyes.  “That’s pretty much what everyone says about me.”

Dean yanked some bills out of his pocket, and left them on the table.  “C’mon, Clay.  You’re gonna need to get some shut eye before we go after this thing.  You got a motel I can drop you at?”

Clay shook his head.  “No.  I—I don’t.”

Dean took a good look at the guy in front of him, making note of the stubble, the creased clothing, and the general air of unkemptness of the guy, and realized he’d been sleeping rough for several nights.  “You been camping out?”

Clay made a noise a generous person might call a laugh.  “Are you kidding me?  I’m practically afraid of the dark.  I spend nights in a truck stop out on the highway.  Bottomless cup of coffee for a buck-forty-nine.  I’ll meet you out there when you’re ready.”

The defeated slump of Clay’s shoulders tore at Dean’s heart.  This wasn’t his brother, he knew that, but—

“No way, man.  C’mon.  I’ve got a double room.  You can come back with me, get a shower, and catch some sleep.  We gotta wait ‘til dark to go after this thing; the ritual can’t be completed ‘til then, so you might as well get some shut eye.”

Clay didn’t look like he was capable of putting up an argument, so Dean grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out into the parking lot.  “Where’s your car?”

Clay shook his head.  “Don’t have one.  I had a bike, but that, that thing—“

“Jesus, okay.  C’mon.”

Dean herded Clay to the Impala and pushed him towards the passenger side.  When Clay hesitated before getting in, Dean rolled his eyes.  “Dude!  You’re not a chick, and I’m not opening the door for you.  Get in!”

Clay muttered under his breath, something about how _Dean_ was the chick, which Dean tolerantly ignored because the guy was clearly exhausted.  But he got into the car, finally.  The wave of loss that washed over Dean when he saw Clay sprawled there, exactly like Sam, long legs akimbo, made him catch his breath.  He had to keep repeating to himself that this was _not_ his brother.  He knew he missed Sam, Jesus, of _course_ he missed the fucking Sasquatch, but this was getting ridiculous.

He started the car, dropped it into gear, and noticed that Clay was already asleep against the window.  If Dean drove a little more carefully than usual, smoothly guiding the Impala around the potholes in the parking lot, he was just making sure the undercarriage of his baby wasn’t damaged.  That was all.

~*~

Dean herded an exhausted Clay into the motel room and bodily pushed him into the bathroom.  “Shower, dude.  You ain’t exactly April-fresh.”

Clay flipped him off and slammed the bathroom door, making Dean chuckle.  He settled himself on the bed he’d claimed and began going through one the books he kept in the trunk of the car.  He was fairly sure he knew what they were dealing with, but he needed to double-check a few facts, ask Clay a couple of questions, and then they’d be good to go.

Clay was out of the bathroom quickly, boxer briefs and thin t-shirt clinging to his damp skin, roughly toweling his damp hair.  Dean blamed the rush of heat he felt on the roll of steam that followed the other man out of the bathroom, and ignored the knowing look Clay sent him.

“When do we need to head out?” Clay asked as he settled on the opposite bed.

Dean checked his watch.  Sunset was just after eight at this time of year, and they needed to wait until full dark before they could perform the ritual.

“Six.  That’ll give us time to set up the circle.”

Clay eyed him curiously.  “Circle?”

Dean nodded.  “Yeah.  I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with a revenant.  You said you put the guy through a wood chipper?  Dismembered him?”

Clay swallowed.  Hard.  “No.  No, but—the back of his head.  It hollowed him out like a fucking pumpkin.  The guy wasn’t brain dead, Dean.  _He had no brain_.”

Dean glanced down at the open book, at the picture that showed just what kind of damage a revenant could withstand; what kind of damage they could dish out.  He slammed the book shut, knowing that the last thing Clay needed to see right now was _An Illustrated Guide to Losing Your Lunch_.

“Revenants don’t need brains, Clay.  They’re dead.  They can regenerate any body part, heal any wound.  They never stop.  They just keep killing and killing until there’s nothing left.”

Clay clenched his fists.  “Then how the fuck—“

“Silver.  They’re vulnerable to silver.  We have to bind him with the ritual, then we take his head.  With a silver blade.  Then we salt and burn the body.  There’s no coming back from that, Clay.  It’ll be over.”

Clay squeezed his eyes shut, bowed his head.  Then he nodded.  “Okay.  Okay, what do we need to do?”

Dean smiled.  “Sleep.  You’re still exhausted, and if we’re going to be traipsing all over hell and creation tonight, I need my beauty rest.”

Clay pulled the covers back on his bed, and burrowed beneath them like a small child.  When he had the blankets pulled up around his shoulders, he looked over at Dean, watching him pack the small duffel bag of supplies they would need.

“So you do this a lot?”

Dean nodded.  “Yeah, it’s kinda the family business.”

“Was Sam your partner?”

Dean’s hands stilled on the duffel for a moment, before he continued packing.  “Yeah.  Once.  A long time ago.”

Clay was silent for a long time, and Dean hoped he had fallen asleep.  Of all the things he didn’t want to talk about, Sam topped the list.

“What happened?”

Dean zipped the duffel and walked over to lay it by the door.  “Go to sleep, Clay.”  He quickly laid down lines of salt at the door and window and then stripped down to his boxers and climbed into the other bed.  The room was nowhere close to dark, midday sun streaming through the threadbare curtains, but it was cool, with a miraculously working air conditioner, and Dean closed his eyes, enjoying the stillness and the quiet breaths from the other bed.

“Did you love him?”

Dean opened his eyes and stared at the other bed.  Clay’s eyes were closed, his hair mussed, and he looked heartbreakingly young and vulnerable.  It would be so easy to pretend it was his brother, the resemblance really was uncanny.

“More than anything.”

Clay opened his eyes at Dean’s softly spoken words.  He stared into familiar eyes and missed his brother so badly he ached.  It took Dean a long time to fall asleep. 

~*~

Sharing a room was just one more thing he missed about Sam.  When they’d gotten old enough—when Sam was around twelve or thirteen—Dad had decided they were too old to share the bed like they always had, and started getting rooms with pull out beds or cots, so that everyone had their own bed.  If that failed, he’d rent two rooms.  Sam and Dean in one, and Dad in the other.  Up until Sam left for Stanford, Dean’s night time ritual had consisted of salting the doors and windows, cleaning his weapons, and then listening to the soft sounds of Sam breathing, the murmurs he made when he dreamed.  It was better than a lullaby.

Even when Sam had a nightmare, which was more common than Dean liked, when he screamed and thrashed, Dean simply slid over from his bed into his brother’s.  He would wrap his arms around Sam’s flailing limbs and hold him, whispering reassurances in his ear.  Eventually, Sam would stop fighting and go limp, and Dean would make to go back to his own bed.  Always, _always_ , Sam would whisper, “Stay.”  So Dean would stay, letting Sam attach himself to Dean’s side, his head resting on Dean’s shoulder.  Sometimes, Sam cried, silent tears wetting Dean’s t-shirt, but Dean just stroked the shaggy head until Sam fell back asleep.   It was all part of the routine, and while Dean hated being woken up at ass o’clock in the morning, the heat from Sammy’s body and his soft breaths against Dean’s neck would always lull him right back into dreamland, and eventually he found he slept better on the nights Sam had a nightmare then on the nights he slept straight through.

Dean never suffered from a sleepless night until Sam took off for Stanford.  He found he could barely sleep at all when he shared a room just with his father; John Winchester had a tendency to snore, loudly, and Dean had tried everything short of smothering the man with a pillow in his sleep to get him to quit, all with no effect.  When Dad wasn’t snoring, he liked to pace the room, muttering over his notes, pinning things to the walls, making connections.  It was great for whatever hunt they were on, but it wasn’t particularly restful, and Dean had never been able to block him out enough to get some shut-eye.  It didn’t help that Dad had a habit of shouting out his discoveries, which would have Dean sitting bolt upright, gun in one hand and blade in the other, blinking and bleary-eyed while Dad scribbled his latest find in his journal.

When he was on his own, hunting without Dad, it was even worse.  Knowing there was no one else in the crummy motel room, listening to his own breaths, hearing his own heartbeat in his ears until it deafened him, made sleep a near impossibility.

It had left Dean with the ability to function on a lot less than forty winks.

So when he dropped quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep, he wasn’t anything but thankful.  And when his sleep was interrupted by familiar whimpers, he was barely awake when he slid into the other bed, whispering, “Hush Sammy, I’m here.  Shh, it’s okay.  Just a dream.”  The familiar body that thrashed against his own, the familiar thrum of desire that he savagely repressed, the familiar heat as the body turned to him, relaxed against him, it had all happened a thousand times before, and he didn’t even need to open his eyes to sooth the trembling figure beside him.

~*~

Dean woke up at five minutes to six, and jumped a little when he realized that first of all, he wasn’t in his own bed, but in Clay’s, and second of all, the other man was wrapped around him like a vine around a tree.  Clay was sleeping with his head on Dean’s chest, his arm over Dean’s belly and one leg over Dean’s thigh.  His mouth was open a little bit, and his soft snores were the only noise in the quiet room.  Dean couldn’t help but grin a bit at the slack expression on the other man’s face, but it died quickly when he realized once again just how much the man looked like his brother, _smelled_ like his brother.  The resemblance had even confused his subconscious, which had apparently decided now would be an excellent time to indulge in some of its favorite fantasies involving his younger brother.  And his dick was also getting in on the act, hard and aching in his boxers.  He was suddenly very aware of Clay’s knee, which was close enough that if he shifted just a little, he’d be able to rub himself against the other man.

He detangled himself from Clay’s grip and slid out of the bed, moving to the bathroom as quickly and quietly as he could.  He closed the bathroom door and leaned against it for a moment.  He could see his reflection in the bathroom mirror, eyes wide and guilty, his face flushed.  He could see his pulse beating in his neck, feel it in his temples and his hands and his groin.  He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see his guilty reflection, and slid his hand into his briefs, feeling his dick pulse against his fingers.  He was so close already, could still feel Sammy’s warmth against his, still smell his scent in his nose.  It only took a couple of quick jerks before he was coming, his head falling back against the door as he filled his cupped palm.

He refused to meet his own eyes in the mirror as he stripped down and climbed in the shower, letting the warm water wash away his release and wishing it could wash away the guilt and the memories as easily.


	2. Chapter 2

Clay was awake when Dean left the bathroom, eyes wide and blinking like he didn’t remember where he was. 

“You okay?” Dean asked, toweling his hair dry with the postage stamp sized hand towel.

Clay rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then pushed his fingers back through his hair, trying to settle what was a truly epic case of bed head.

“Sleep okay?” 

Clay seemed to consider this, and met Dean’s gaze with a look of surprise.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact.  I haven’t slept that well since…”  Clay’s voice trailed off as he remembered exactly why he hadn’t been sleeping, and he paled a little.

Dean nodded.  “C’mon, get dressed.  We’ll head out and get the ritual started before sunset.  Then we just have to wait for the big machete-wielding psycho in the woods to find us.”

Dean meant it to sound like a joke; he was waiting for Sammy’s patented bitch-face-and-scowl routine, and instead he got a terrified look and a short nod.  He sighed and sat down beside Clay on the bed.

“It’ll be okay, Clay.  I promise.  I know it’s scary as shit, and I know you’ve been through a lot, but I do this all the time.  It’s what I do.  We can handle this.  It’s not going to hurt anyone else, okay?”

Clay stared at his hands for a moment, and then finally raised his head to meet Dean’s stare.  He looked into Dean’s eyes for a long stretch of seconds and Dean fought not to blink, knowing somehow that Clay needed every inch of comfort he could get.  Dean willed Clay to read it from his eyes, the knowledge that they would kill this thing, salt and burn it, and never let it hurt another soul.

Finally Clay seemed to get what he needed and his shoulders shuddered a little as he breathed deep.  He nodded, his eyes never leaving Dean’s as he repeated, his voice rough, “It’s not going to hurt anyone else.”

~*~

After everything Clay had been through, even Dean thought that the ritual and its results were anti-climactic.  Creating the binding circle with its runes and sigils had taken very little time, and once the sun had sunk below the horizon, Dean had chanted the ritual from his dad’s journal.  The revenant had appeared at the edge of the clearing almost immediately, dressed in stained clothing, holding a machete and—Dean squinted—wearing a hockey mask?  Dean shrugged.  He’d seen weirder.  Hell, he’d _done_ weirder.  But Clay had stiffened beside him, and he knew it was only his hand on Clay’s wrist that had stopped the taller man from turning and sprinting into the woods.

“Wait, Clay.  Just wait.”

He heard Clay inhale a breath and hold it.  They watched together as the tall figure marched grimly across the clearing, moving swiftly and soundlessly towards them, the machete glinting in the weak starlight.  Dean felt that heart-stopping instant of bright fear, the surety that _this_ time, the ritual wouldn’t work, _this_ time the creature would win, and then grinned when the revenant stopped dead in its tracks inside the binding circle, stuck as surely as a fly in amber.

Dean turned to Clay, and winced at the wide-eyed look of fear the other man gave him.  “It’s okay, Clay.  It’s not going anywhere now.  We’ll finish the ritual, salt and burn the remains, and then we’re out of here.  We’ll be done before moonrise.”

And they were.  The completed ritual left the revenant lying lifeless and limp in the center of the circle, and it was a matter of a few moments for Dean to remove the thing’s head, silver blade flashing in the dim light.  Dean salted the remains, doused them liberally with gasoline, and held a pack of matches out to Clay.

“You wanna do the honors?” 

Clay shook his head mutely, but stepped forward and took the matches from Dean’s hand anyway.  It took him a couple of tries to light the first match.  His hands were trembling too badly to strike the match head hard enough, but he sidestepped when Dean made to take the matches back from him. 

“I got it.”  With one last attempt, the entire pack went up in a bright flare, highlighting Clay’s dark eyes and high cheekbones, and Dean couldn’t help a small gasp at the man’s beauty.

“Burn in hell, you son of a bitch.”

~*~

Dean took the precaution of sprinkling the ashes of the revenant into running water, just to be on the safe side, and then drove back to the motel.  He had the room booked for the night anyway.  It seemed stupid to waste it.

He pulled the Impala into the room’s parking space, and glanced over at his passenger.  Clay hadn’t said a word since burning the revenant’s remains, standing pale and quiet at Dean’s shoulder while the body burned, following him to the stream to spread the ashes, and then back to the car.  All animation had washed out of his face, and now he just looked tired and ill.

Dean ran a hand over his face.  He understood, he did.  If he had ever lost Sammy the way Clay had lost his sister, he didn’t know what he’d do.  Probably just go fuckin insane.  Revenge was great, vengeance could get you through, but when it was over and finished, what did you do?  How did you keep living when everything you’d ever lived for was gone?

He reached a hand out and rubbed Clay’s shoulder gently.  “C’mon, man.  You look like you could use another forty winks, at least.  Got the room ‘til eleven tomorrow; we might as well make use of it.”

Clay nodded, never raising his gaze from his hands, and followed Dean out of the car and into the motel room.  Dean closed the door behind him, and watched as Clay stumbled blindly towards the bed.  He was worried about the look in the other man’s eyes.  Clay was in shock.  The nightmare was over, the monster vanquished, and he had no idea what to do next.  So Dean decided for him. 

“C’mon, dude.  Shower first, then we get something to eat.  You like pizza?  I’m starving.  I’ll order some food while you’re in the bathroom, okay?”

Clay nodded tiredly and headed into the bathroom without a word.  Dean stared after him for a moment, and then picked up the phone to order a pizza.

~*~

They spent the majority of the evening on their separate beds, watching bad sitcoms and eating worse pizza.  Clay was nodding over the last slice when Dean silenced the TV with the remote. 

“Clay, man.  Hit the hay.  We’ll get breakfast in the morning and we’ll figure out the next steps, okay?”

Clay nodded again.  He’d barely spoken all evening, remaining distant and quiet, and Dean hoped the other man would be able to sleep tonight.  Dean stayed awake for a couple of hours, listening as Clay’s breaths finally deepened into sleep, before letting himself drift off.

It was after three when Dean sat straight up in bed.  He’d been dreaming about Sam; they were together, driving in the Impala, hunting again, and Dean didn’t think he’d ever been happier.  He sat in the dark for a few moments, disorientated, wondering what the hell had woken him, when he heard the soft sob, and realized that Clay was crying.

Dean slid over the short distance to the other bed, and gently rested a hand on Clay’s shoulder.  “You okay, man?”

Clay stiffened under his hand, and then rolled over to face him.  Through the dim light that filtered through the curtains, Dean could see the tear tracks streaking the other man’s face.

“What am I supposed to do now, Dean?  You said it’s over, but it feels like it’s still happening, like it’ll always be happening.  How do I move past this?”

Dean couldn’t help himself.  The imploring eyes, the tear-streaked face, the grasping hands that clutched at his shirt.  It was Sam all over again, Sammy begging him to make the nightmares go away, Sam begging him to make everything safe and happy and alright.  So he did what he’d always done, did what he was practically programmed to do.  He put his arms around the other man, rocked him gently, whispered soothing words.  He ran one hand through the long silky hair when he felt tears dampen his t-shirt.  He used his thumb to wipe the tears from under Clay’s eye when he raised his head.  It was just so damn familiar, something he’d done a hundred, a thousand times in the past.

And then it veered shockingly out of the familiar and into the forbidden when Clay stretched forward and captured Dean’s mouth in a kiss.

 _Dean, look after Sammy_.  He could hear his father’s voice in his head, thundering the words that had become Dean’s mantra, and he tried to jerk backwards, but Clay’s fists were clenched in his shirt, and the inch of clearance he got when he pulled away vanished in a heartbeat when Clay followed him.

“Please,” he muttered between frantic kisses.  “God, please Dean.  I need you, please.”

Dean wavered.  This was _wrong_ and he knew it.  Clay was at the worst of places right now, barely in his right mind, and say what you would about Dean’s proclivities, he’d never taken advantage of anyone.  But this was the closest he’d ever get to his dearest, darkest dream, and Clay was asking, _begging_ him for it, and his mouth was hot on Dean’s, and his taste was sharp and good and _almost-Sam_ , and if this was all Dean would ever get, he had to make it count.  Because Sam was gone, Stanford now for _years_ , and he’d made it plain he was never coming back, and he’d been _Dean’s_ , the only thing Dean ever loved, ever needed, and he’d left.  And now Clay was here, in his arms, and Dean was kissing back before he’d even worked out the argument in his head.

They tussled on the bed, a double that really wasn’t built to hold two men who were both over six feet, but they didn’t even notice when Dean almost fell over the side.  He just gripped Clay’s shoulder and Clay grabbed Dean’s arm and yanked him back.  He pulled Clay’s shirt over his head, huffing a little in amusement as the friction from the cloth gave Clay some major static-hair, but it just gave Dean an excuse to shove his hands into it, to feel the little nips of electricity on his fingers contrasting with the smooth silk of the freshly washed hair, and he guided Clay’s mouth to his and set his teeth in Clay’s lower lip.  Clay honest to god _growled_ , and then Dean’s t-shirt was lying in rags around him, and Clay’s fingers were circling his nipples, pinching and twisting and Dean arched off the bed with a thin whimper.  Clay pressed against Dean, holding him to the bed, and Dean wanted to thrash, wanted to moan, because already it was better than anything he’d ever dreamed.  Clay’s skin was so hot against his, sweat-slicked and smooth, and Dean arched again just to feel his nipples drag against Clay’s chest.

“You’re so fucking hot, do you know that?  Christ, Dean, the things I want to do to you.  Wanna make you fucking scream.”

Dean threw his head back as Clay kissed his chest, licking and biting his way to Dean’s nipple.  Then the warm wet of Clay’s mouth engulfed the tender bud, sucking and licking, teeth nipping and Dean was about to lose his freaking mind.  “Do it,” he managed.  His throat was dry and it sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of marbles, but want and desire were building in him so fast he felt like he was drowning.  Clay glanced up at him when he spoke, and for the first time, the lost and lonely look in his eyes was gone, submerged by lust, and he grinned up at Dean.

“Do it.”  Dean repeated.  “I fucking dare you.”

Clay was standing suddenly, pushing his boxers down, and then reaching down and stripping Dean’s from his body.  Clay stood there for a moment, just looking, until Dean thought he was going to scream in frustration.  Then Clay clambered back on the bed, straddling Dean, that long hard body pushing him back on the bed, and Clay’s hot length was pressed against Dean’s, and Clay’s hand was wrapped around both of them.  It was too dry, no lube except for a little pre-come, but at the same time it felt fucking amazing.  Clay was doing this move with his wrist that if he kept up, was going to have Dean coming his brains out in about four and a half seconds, and then the bastard _stopped_.

Dean groaned at the loss, but the groan quickly became a whimper when he felt Clay’s fingers brushing against his entrance.

“Wanna fuck you, Dean.  Wanna fuck your tight little ass all night.  You gonna let me?”

Clay sat back and sucked a finger into his mouth.  His dark eyes never left Dean’s as he waited for an answer.  The electric jolt he felt when Clay brushed the fingers of his other hand over Dean’s weeping erection was all the answer Dean needed, but he nodded breathlessly for Clay’s benefit, twisting against the light touch on his dick, aching for more, more friction, more pressure, just more.  And then the finger was back, pushing inside of him without any more fucking around, just Clay’s saliva slicking the way, and it had been too damn long since Dean played catcher for anyone.  His hips arched as he pushed back against the slight burn but _goddamn_ it felt good. 

Clay pulled out, dragging his nail against Dean’s rim, but before Dean could even moan at the sensation, he felt Clay skate two fingers against his entrance, and with a quick flick of his wrist, Clay pushed them both inside.  It was too much, too soon, the pain skating up Dean’s spine, and he gasped as Clay began scissoring his fingers, twisting his wrist to loosen the tight muscle.  Dean reached down to try and stop Clay, or at least get him to slow down a little, when Clay’s fingers brushed against something inside him that lit up the back of Dean’s eyelids.

The pain disappeared, chased away by an incredible pleasure that burned and curled through every nerve ending Dean had.  He moaned, his hand falling away against his hip, his head turning on the pillow and it was all he could do to keep breathing.  Clay kept grazing his fingers against that spot, pressing and rubbing and Dean wasn’t sure if he’d survive this, and he knew Clay was talking, saying something but he couldn’t hear anything through the white noise that was rushing through his ears.

Clay pulled his fingers away after a few moments, and Dean moaned in disappointment.  He reached for Clay, trying to pull him back, and didn’t even mind when Clay chuckled a little.  “Greedy, aren’t you?  It’s okay.  I’ll take care of you, Dean.  I’ve got you.”  Clay leaned down and kissed Dean again, tracing over Dean’s lips with his tongue and then kissing him deeply, kisses that left Dean gasping for air.  When he pulled back, Dean would have been hard pressed to remember his own name.

Clay slid back between his legs, pressing his knees back so they rested against his chest.  He circled his fingers around Dean’s hole gently.  “You ready?”

He wasn’t.  He knew he wasn’t, there hadn’t been near enough prep considering how long it had been, but he didn’t care.  He needed it, needed it now, before he burnt up from the inside with how badly he wanted it.  “Yeah,” he breathed.  “Yeah, do it.”

Clay spit in his hand and smeared the make-shift lube over himself, and then pressed slowly into Dean.  He fought not to arch away from the intrusion; not enough prep, not enough lube, and it really had been way too long.  He breathed through the burn, long slow exhales, his hands fisted in the sheets, and if there were tears in his eyes, Clay didn’t mention it when he stilled, bottomed out in Dean’s body.

“You okay?” Clay whispered, pressing soft kisses onto Dean’s neck and chest.

“Y-yeah.  Yeah, just gimme a minute.”

Fuck, it hurt.  He closed his eyes, tried to push past the pain.  Tried to remember the incredible pleasure he’d experienced just a few moments ago, but he really wanted to push Clay off, push him _out_ , and forget this night had ever happened.  He opened his mouth to say just that, to suggest mutual hand jobs and call it good, when Clay’s hand stroked over his face.  He opened his eyes, and every objection died in his throat.

Clay’s eyes were soft, liquid.  The concern in them was clear and obvious.  It wasn’t the concern for a near-stranger for another.  It wasn’t the concern of a hunter for his partner. 

Those were _Sam’s_ eyes staring back at him, the same look he would get whenever Dean got hurt on a hunt, or some random asshole would make a white trash comment when they walked by, or when Dad was a little too vehement in mentioning everything that had gone wrong on the latest hunt and why exactly it was Dean’s fault.

“You good, Dean?”

Dean nodded wordlessly.  Yeah, he was good.  He was good and fucked up, but those were Sam’s eyes, and Sam’s face, and Jesus Christ, Sam’s _cock_ moving in and out of him and fuck it felt so good, even with the tingle of pain still sizzling along his nerve endings, he didn’t care.  It was Sam, and it was everything Dean had ever wanted, ever.  And then Clay shifted, changed the angle, and suddenly it was good, so fucking good, Dean didn’t care how much it hurt, he just _wanted_.  He wanted it all.

“Oh, fuck!  Oh fuck, Sa-Clay!  Yeah, Jesus, just like that, God, please, just like that.”

Clay began thrusting in earnest, driving his cock in and out, and Dean could feel his orgasm barreling down on him, chasing him, and he would let it catch him, because this was going to feel fucking phenomenal.  Clay was still talking, whispering dirty little things in Dean’s ear and his skin was burning off, he was so hot.  With every push Clay was rubbing against that spot inside him, twisting his hips and grinding against Dean, and he could feel Clay getting close, hear it in the hitch of his breath and his bitten off groans.

Then Clay was coming, and no condom and wouldn’t Sam kick his ass for that one, but the hot splashes of come inside him sent him off into his own climax, _threw_ him off the edge.  His head was spinning and his ears were ringing and he could feel Clay’s come sliding slowly out of his ass as Clay kept moving, kept brushing against him, kept moving his hands all over Dean’s skin.  He closed his eyes as Clay’s hand brushed over his still leaking cock, milking the last of his orgasm out of him, and he managed to snag a hand into Clay’s hair and pull him down for another kiss.  He hissed when Clay pulled out, despite how gentle the other man tried to be, and couldn’t hold back the whimper when Clay pressed his fingers against Dean’s leaking hole. 

“So beautiful like this, with my come running out of you.  So fucking beautiful.”

His dick gave a feeble twitch and Dean moaned at the sensation, and Clay kissed the sound out of his mouth.  When Clay pulled back, Dean blinked sleepy eyes at him.  He was suddenly so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open.

Clay grinned.  “Go to sleep, Dean.  It’s okay.  Go to sleep.”

Dean felt strong arms gather him close.  He closed his eyes for a moment, fully planning to tell Clay off for assuming he’s a girl and needs to be cuddled after sex, and was asleep before he could even form the words.

~*~

Dean had no idea how much time had passed when he woke up, but it was the strong light of morning filtering through the windows and not the grey hue of dawn, so he figured he’d slept for a good eight hours after the most incredible sex of his life.  He levered himself up on one elbow, noting absently that he didn’t feel as disgusting as he would have thought after sleeping all night in his own come and sweat, and realized that Clay must have wiped him down before falling asleep himself.

“What a date I make,” he muttered, and glanced over at the other bed, intending to apologize to his roommate but Clay wasn’t there.  The sheets were rumpled from where Dean had slept there the night before, but the other man was conspicuously absent.

“Clay?”

Dean levered himself out of bed, wincing.  He was just as sore as he’d figured he’d be, but he didn’t regret it for a second.  Walking a little more bow-legged than usual, he headed for the bathroom. 

“Clay?”

The bathroom was empty, and looking around, Dean realized that Clay’s rucksack was gone.

“Jesus Christ, the fucker ditched me.”

Dean stormed over to the bed, intending to dress as quickly as possible, and then chase after him.  He wasn’t sure why Clay had left, but Dean knew the other man was in no position to be on his own.  Plus, he had no money and no transportation.  Dean had to find him.

He’d just pulled on his jeans when he saw the note on the bedside table with his name on the front.  With a shaking hand, Dean grabbed the single sheet of paper and opened it.

 

_Dean,_

_I want to thank you for everything.  I can’t believe this nightmare is over, and my sister can rest in peace._

_Part of me wants to stay with you.  I’m writing this as you lie sleeping beside me, and I want so badly to curl up next to you.  The only peace, the only sleep, I’ve had in the last six months has been when you’ve been beside me.  Just one more thing I’ll never be able to thank you for._

_But the other part of me knows that I’m not what you need, not who you’re looking for.  Dean, life is too short.  Way too fucking short, and I’ve already wasted too much of it.  Lost people that had no idea how important they were to me.  I think you have too._

_Dean, go find Sam.  Whatever happened between you, it’s not worth hanging on to.  You love him so much, and if he’s got a brain in his head, he loves you too.  You think he doesn’t want you, isn’t missing you, the way you miss and want him, but I know you’re wrong.  Sam’s waiting for you.  Waiting for you and missing you, and wishing you were there.  Don’t waste any more time, Dean._

_I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me and my family._

_Go to Sam._

_Always,_

_Clay_

 

Dean crumpled the note in his hand.  He cursed, stood and kicked the bed in fury, and then threw the ball of paper in the garbage on his way to the shower.

~*~

Forty-five minutes later, Dean pulled onto the highway.  He had a hunt in New Orleans to deal with.  He’d left three messages for Dad in the last four days, and he was starting to get worried.  And he had a crumpled letter lying in the hidden compartment of his duffle bag. 

Clay was right.  Life was too short.

  
The end. 


End file.
